Lucid Dreams In Moscow

I

The sky circles me, now sealed
in the grey glass of this snow globe.
I can taste something metallic in the air.

II

Golden tear drops of the Kremlin
pierce the slow hearts of the lowest clouds,
spilling a splattering of rain.

III

Looming before me, St Basil's basks in camera flashes,
with its candy-cane swirls and pretentious pastels,
I fear I may have stumbled into the wrong fairytale.

IV

Night descends on Red Square. The GUM department store
throws off a slick, glittering reflection, leaving it to stew
and swirl on the mirror of the cobbles.

V

The Novodevichy Convent bathes in spotlights,
scattering diamonds across Swan Lake -
although the last swans have long since gone.